Bacteria in the Throat

Love is bacteria in your throat.

Within four days time, my mother moved out, I had to coax my dad out of a bar and away from his vehicle, I found out I have contracted some sort of atypical strep throat to be a slave to penicillin twice a day for the next 10 days all while working six days a week and going to school for five, and my whole Labor Day was waited away in urgent care and sitting on the floor at Walgreens when I was supposed to go kayaking with a person I’ve been spending most of my time with. I’m not complaining to you, I am just telling you.

So deeply connected is everything in our lives. We wonder why ” the things” happen to us, but whether we find a reason or not is irrelevant to the fact that “things” do happen to us and we inevitably deal with them anyway. What’s the saying? When it rains it pours? Again, I’m not complaining, I am just telling you. image2-1

I am simply trying to understand what the fuck is happening so that I can deal with “the things” the healthiest and smartest way I can while I am being forced to. My parents separated because they were unhappy together, my mom moved away to live with her mother who needs my mom at this point in her elderly life, taking herself (my mother) away from her daughter (me) who is “an adult now.” Correct. But what is this irony? Now I am no longer near MY mother, and she as a mother is no longer near her DAUGHTER. My father and brother seem to think alcohol will numb the pain and take away “the things” that are troublesome, I often find myself battling with that liquid placebo with the same effect: Nothing is cured and nothing is solved when you wake up the next morning with a hangover, a slightly shrunken brain, dehydration, anxiety, lack of motivation, and a feeling of self hatred. So many times have I been there. But since Friday, though the days between then and now have been filled with bullshit, because of a bacterial infection in my throat- as much as my body craves the succulent body of red wine or a well-made margarita- I cannot drink to get drunk, I cannot smoke to get high, and I cannot have sex to feel a most primal and basic euphoria. To do any of the three would result in the antibiotics not working, my condition getting worse, or getting someone else sick. The first and third things I do almost daily, and the second I do almost weekly. For ten days I will do none of them.

For ten days I will be forced to stay in my own head and to deal with the things. To deal with the absence of my mother and sister (away at college), the sadness in my father, the anger in my brother, and a partner/relationship I cannot understand the basis of. To explain further about the latter, I will put it bluntly to begin with in a short statement: Sometimes I wonder why we didn’t just stay strictly “fuck buddies;” fuck, laugh, leave. The “he” is a universal he because almost all of my sexual/emotional relationships have been similar, all but one, but that one is over when he moved far away, and I’m sure it wasn’t necessarily healthy what we were doing, we just wanted different things at that point, and I know now that he nor I will ever be the same. I have only ever had one “titled” relationship and that was in tenth grade and I just don’t think high school counts. So in reality, I’ve never been in an “official” relationship. The current one is different from previous ones (before the one that went away) because it’s not just drunk-all-the-time-free-for-all, but we do spend time together and family time together, it’s really nice, but some things have me really confused and concerned. Regardless, as soon as you drop the love bomb (in a relationship or not) something changes whether you want it to or not. I always tell everyone I love them because you never know when the last time will be that you get to say it. When he says, “I love you,” I almost get pissed off. Who is me, and who the fuck is he? He loves me for my ass? He loves me for the way I’m not afraid in bed? He loves me for my personality and smile? Those things aren’t even who I am, and those are the only things I’ve seen him “love” me for, with condition. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. So does she. But she is not me either.

To be a part of this type of thing while my parents are going through their thing is both a blessing and a curse. I have someone to talk to about it, but I don’t think he is listening, and I don’t even think I want him to. No matter how old you are that shit will cut you deep when your foundation no longer wants to hold together. Why would I ever want to be married and have children when it can fall to pieces never to be the same again? I don’t want him to actually love me, because I don’t want to actually love him either. Love is painful, and love is the only thing that keeps us going. The paradox! No wonder I love getting tattooed and I am acquiring quite the collection… Anyways, what I’m saying here is that love is bacteria in the throat. The universe has made it so, that at this point in time with everything happening at once, I cannot drink and I cannot fuck like I normally would do, and all I can do is stay on ground 0 and reflect with no highs and no comedowns. This bacterial infection in my throat is the universe sending its unconditional love all the while he says let me know when you feel better so I don’t get infected, and my registered nurse mom isn’t flying home on 81 to take care of me and tell me I’ll get better soon. I am not complaining, I am merely telling you. On ground 0 I am watching the rest of the world get high and come down. I am the shore watching the waves, and the moon is “the things,” pulling gravity for the next ten days. And maybe even 10 more. We’ll see how this sober observation/reflection thing goes. So far, as I listen to the “The Noose” by Perfect Circle on repeat hour after hour I’m feeling pretty good about it. I know after I learn how to deal with and then apply healthy and smart actions to “the things” I will come out stronger than I went in, my armor of independence grows more and more unbreakable with every fucking arrow of shit hurdling at it. With “love” deconstructing all around me in terms of people in my life, in terms of human relations and conditions- which we are all imperfectly human in our perfectly beautiful human condition- I have never felt more love from the UNIVERSE, sitting here drinking hot “Throat Comfort” tea with honey.

Love is bacteria in your throat.

Buzzed Beach Blog

I came back down onto the beach today after taking a glorious “Dirty Hippie” shit (a chai drink from Hunga Bunga Java Coffee shop where we have become regulars even for only being here once a year). I sat down in my chair and my sister Ella said, “Did you see that girl that just came down?”

The tall tan blonde must have seductively glided down the public walk way we are sharing with neighboring oceanfront beach homes, and people staying sound-side, moments before I did. But I came down the steps jauntily, rather than seductively, as my mother explained how I walk. I replied “No” to Ella as my eyes wondered to the tent beside us on the beach and I spotted her. “You should see her butt,” Ella added as she returned to reading 30-Second Brain, a book about neuroscience. “I don’t give a fuck about her ass,” I said.

Approximately 15 yards away from this lean tall ass-beauty, I examined all that she had to aesthetically offer me. Again, long blonde straight hair, lean and tall, sun-kissed, and if I had a microscope, probably not a peach fuzz on her youthful flat-stomached, thigh-gapped, around 17-year-old body.

Yeah, I remember being 17 too.

But the question, my friends, that I ask now as a 21-year-old woman is, “Do they have the funk?”

Do they radiate charisma? And I’m not talking about “Is he or she a good person?” No, that is irrelevant and unknowable unless you indeed know the person and spend months, even years, with said person. I’m talking about an energy that certain people carry with them. Even places have the capability to carry this energy. Like where I am now, in Topsail Island, North Carolina. A pretty funky state in its entirety. But the young woman’s energy radiates the same energy that houses at the North end of the island radiate. Yes, they are huge and luxurious and have hot tubs and a million rooms decorated with expensive shit that someone can afford to own and rent in addition to their mansion in Maine along with a fleet of Lamborghinis… But these North end beach houses all look the same. I have stayed in several of them over the years and have always found myself longing for the South end. Where we are now. Tucked in between two of the only gnarly beach trees that can be seen for blocks down the dunes. With wooden walls and ceilings and weirdly placed and shaped windows added and built by the hands of a charismatic man, or woman. You can fucking tell. Our little island hideaway  has the funk. It has words, and a story, and an energy emitting from it’s little thought-out structure. It’s like Bilbo Baggins and the Shire. Hello.

But this isn’t the first thing that Ella has said to me that triggered this reaction from me. Not but two weeks ago,  she walked into my room wearing a new open-backed dress, asking if I had any stick boobs (the bra that sticks to your breasts so you don’t have to worry about straps). I replied and asked why she needed them. She said, “My boobs are too small. It will look weird.”

Now, my reaction is coming from someone who doesn’t wear a bra unless I’m wearing a shirt that requires me to at work or I’m running a long distance, but pure anger was and is indeed the reaction to my sister’s statement.

For those of you who don’t know, but she will willingly talk about it now, Ella, my sister, was anorexic.

I’m sure running track has something to do with it because anorexia is common among track athletes for some reason, but my dears, society has everything to do with it. And all of us know why. From technology to porn and this idealization of what women and men should look like, we know what eats us alive when we wake up and look in the mirror and we think, “How SHOULD I look today?” And then usually the following question is “Why can’t I look this way?” And the following reactions ensue trying to achieve that “look” that is expected of us. Anorexia can KILL you, and it’s a result of society’s standards. SOCIETY COULD HAVE KILLED MY SISTER! And people, we are all a part of society! Are we killing each other with our expectations?

And friends, I am by no means NOT also affected by this. Yes, I have become very confident about myself over the past few years with the help of working in the restaurant business and dealing with customers, having a few funky friends, spirit guides, my loving parents, and heavy metal music (yes). . . But just the other night while I was at work, I was struck pretty hard inside my 21st century self-esteem. And I am not afraid to openly admit what bothers me about myself:

Physically: 1) My drinking habits along with my lack of exercise habits sometimes show visibly on my lower stomach area, hips, and upper thighs. 2) I wish my arms were more toned as well. 3) I wish I was a tanned bronzed beauty 24/7/365. 4) I have dark hair so my body hair is darker and easier to see if not freshly shaven. (Though I care less and less about this as I get older. I plan to rock my landing-strip for as long as I can bend over to keep it up with the utmost 70’s pride). And 5) Sometimes I wish my face was different but that’s just life and you are 100% stuck with your face, I don’t know what else to say about that.

Personality: 1) My drinking habits make me do and say shit that I would never do or say sober, and I can’t control my habit sometimes, so fuck – – but that’s a different blog. 2) Sometimes when I get nervous under high pressure situations I will lie, and I fucking hate when I do that. I’m working on it. 3) I have the tendency to be attracted to people I probably shouldn’t be attracted to, resulting in me doing weird shit and then going through a long self-loathing process. 4) I can’t stick with a routine to save my life. And last, but not least 5) I’ll contradict myself, like I probably have already in this blog, which I also hate, but everyone does that and the very universe is a contradiction in itself so there really isn’t anything I can do about it.

Anyways, at work, my 21st century societal self-esteem was struck by a strawberry-blonde beauty in a patterned open-back dress who definitely does have the funk. I nonchalantly asked my coworker and dear friend, “How do you compete with that?” He replied, “You’re Tricia, you already won.” Of course, exhausted and hungover, I looked at him with teary eyes, and I remembered what the funk is about and that it is totally inside of me.

Now, I was never anorexic but I have come a long way since 15, 16, 17 years old; when you aren’t a child but you are hardly yet a woman. I can happily say, at 21, I am happy with myself for the most part, though I know my sister still struggles.

Currently, in the book I am reading called Dark Days, a memoir by Randy Blythe (who is now a best-selling author! Congrats!) he said something about people trying to be rockstars and that you can try really really hard to be rockstar, your hardest even, but some people just don’t have it. The same concept applies to the funk. But you can get it, and I’ll explain how.

Mother Earth is my greatest example. Even as I decay writing this, getting closer and closer to death with every breath. . . every moment, every year, I can feel Mother Earth’s funk getting stronger. She’s old now, and aging faster with this 21st century mentality as our environmental awareness fades with our irreversable technological sprawl across her. But like Lamb of God iterates in one of my favorite songs by them called “Reclamation”. . . The lyrics are “The elements reclaim what was taken.” And Mother Earth will. She is older than this 21st century society, and she will win.

My point is, funk is a side-effect of being an old soul.The earth has an old soul and I’m pretty sure I myself have an old soul. You have to die to be reborn within this life and in others (and I’m not even sure if reincarnation is real or how it works. I’m just guessing here). If your soul is older than the current society we live in, you probably have the funk. And it isn’t the tall skinny tan girl’s fault, I’m not trying to judge or shun her, it’s not bad that she gave me the vibe of a simple product of society. She just probably hasn’t died that many deaths or lived that many lives yet. She will learn, and one day you will learn, we will all learn that we’ll be better. And hopefully one day, society will be a reflection of positive funk. (You can still have the funk and be a complete asshole who hasn’t really learned anything, I was morbidly in love with someone like this once.) It’s up to us to sway the funk in a positive way as we live and learn.

So every second that my beautiful sister sits in that beach chair reading her brain book, and not looking in the mirror worrying about “What should I look like today,” she is gaining funk momentum. And as I sit here under the funky moon and write this, so am I.

All I ask is that you question yourself, and question society. Believe in yourself, and believe in self-empowerment. Wake up and skip the mirror. Don’t look at it. Go outside and look INTO the earth. Then you’ll see your true reflection.

Where is Moonglow Mountain? Inspired by my soul sister, the lizard king, and dreadlocks.

I was laying there reading her words from a green journal under a tray ceiling. My heart began to swell with the blood of inspiration as I read her thoughts thrown on the page very similarly to how I throw my thoughts on the page. That blood pumping from my fingers flipping the pages to my mind to my chest and back again. She was changing her shirt and sat down beside me to reread what she had written months before as I read it. The moment felt intimate, I wanted to touch her and whisper to her “I’ll take you to the moon,” because she glows like it, but I didn’t. It’s so interesting to monitor yourself and another and feel like you are the same mind even though you have different physical bodies. Like you have the same metaphysical hands holding the same pen writing about the same feelings though in different contexts because the two of you live different lives. But the more you spend time with someone, the more you fall in love with them. The more you want to be a part of who they are. And who is anyone to tell you that you’re weak for it or that you’re doing something wrong? There are two people inspiring the fuck out of me right now, and I keep falling deeper in love with them, and I keep wanting to be a bigger and bigger part of them because like she said, that’s what humans do. And we ARE human. And we can either hold ourselves back out of fear or let ourselves go into the deep wilderness of the mountains. What am I talking about? Where is Moonglow Mountain?

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of watching the moon come up and down over the mountains in a clearing with a bottle of Pinot Noir and a beautiful friend, you’ll know what I’m talking about. You smoke herb and you see the same shooting stars, and that moon, god that moon, that moon is glowing around the mountains and trees, lighting up the night. Moonglow Mountain is here, you think to yourself. Just two lizards basking in the heat of it, an ever-growing heat. Not worried about any of it. You’re there on Moonglow Mountain.

And here you’re reading excerpts from her soul.

Self indulgent mental masturbation with words. What’s wrong with it?

Nothing.

Because you can do it on Moonglow Mountain.

I was outside tanning a week ago and my sunglasses got caught on one of my dreadlocks. I spent a few minutes trying to disentangle the motherfuckers and for some reason I felt like my action, getting the glasses stuck and unsticking them, and my feelings toward what I was doing were representative and similar to feelings I get toward existence when I’m not on Moonglow Mountain, when I’m fighting to stay there. Not necessarily the frustration, though that happens, but that my actions and thoughts are creating what my life is ever-becoming. Whatever happens to my dreads, whatever gets stuck and pulled through, whatever rubs against them, whatever wind blows them around, will lock them stronger and pull them tighter. People get shit stuck in their dreads and people get shit stuck in their lives, especially when they hold themselves back. People go down all these paths: school, careers, having children, getting married, buying a house or a car, and then people get stuck in it and that is their life. Most people don’t realize that they can still find Moonglow Mountain, they can still hold onto their freedom. We all start off born into hair you can run a brush right through. But no matter how straight your hair is, or how curly, whether you have dreadlocks or not, you’re a part of an ever tightening dread as time goes on. It is the dreadlock of your life and that shit is high fucking maintenance. No matter who you are.

But where is your Moonglow Mountain? Where can you roll around in the dirt and dance naked with your tribe? Where can you let that dreadlock out, get it wet, get it dirty? Who will let you be free to be exactly who you are? Who will dive into the deepest pits of funk and metal and love and freedom? Jim Morrison asks us where is our will to be weird? Randy Blythe covered “You Only Live Once” at Mitch Lucker’s memorial show and at the end he involved the crowd in shouting “LIVE LIFE HARD”. . . with chills on my neck I ask you, are you doing that? Corey Taylor sings “If rain is what you want, enjoy the fall”. . . with chills on my spine, I ask you, are you doing that? Are you allowing yourself to fall, to fall deep in it? Are you allowing yourself to be with who burns your insides like the glow of the moon and refresh you like the smell of the mountains?

My question to you is: Where is YOUR Moonglow Mountain?

And I say to you: If and when you find it, remember how you got there.

All you have to do is close your eyes.

Late Night Pep Talk

Exhaustion breeds an elevated form of emotion and creativity. I know and I don’t know that through this song, Lamb of God, the Potomac River, the Appalachian Mountains, running, yoga, alcohol, working, contemplating, and moving through the maze of this shit we experience as life, that I will come out on top, and I will have fucking battle scars and broken and bleeding fingernails from clawing my way up. This is ugly and beautiful and disgusting and glorious and I am ready to squirm and shake my way through all pain and the pleasure this existence has to offer. I will sow and I will reap and I will be cheated and defeated and brought back up again like winters hash down the fruits in our gardens and spring returns them to a state of productivity and nutrients. I’m not talking about making gains or doing a tough mudder or getting an A on a test or landing a job or graduating or getting a certificate or being what the fuck ever and having a career and kids and a family and fucking life thats “yours” and your shit is under control. I’m talking about when I take that final breath I can say I fucking did it all and I did it freely and fully and I tried to nurture myself and others and help build a part of an energy structure that will carry the will to live and care in other people. Even with the bad stuff, those harsh winters we put ourselves through, that stuff is only a part of the freedom to choose and care about the choice, the decisions are ours to bear. I always said that “One day, you will learn, I’ll be better.” I didn’t know before, but I know now, that I was always talking to myself and the song remains the same and so does the saying. Circling and cycling through it all, I will watch where I’m going and remember where I have been as I sail to those unknown horizons on seas uncharted with no north star for direction because direction doesn’t matter, it’s never fucking mattered. I only have the moon of my own soul pulling the tides of my own heart under a canoe dug out from wood and blood and sweat and fear. It’s that. It’s that fucking chain of thoughts you have in that canoe as you sail to that unknown, alone. Fuck anybody who tries to belittle me or make me feel like I am not becoming everything that I want to be and all that I represent of my insides. Fuck anyone who doesn’t care about everything, because you know you do. Because you don’t want to die and you don’t know what happens. Faith is false. It’s all unknown. And fuck anybody who’s weak enough to let others dictate how you sail. All of my deepest love to those who help and love and care, not just about me, but in a general sense, the ones who want to keep the funk alive, the ones who feel the very deepest and most philosophical and calm, the people who carry the ocean within the body of a bird sailing above the canoe as a thought. When will you learn, Tricia. We are inevitabely at war with ourselves. Peace is in the solitary solemnity of the free and the brave. You’ll get there. You’re getting there.

A Human Condition

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I don’t like cities because they smell like piss and shit and vomit. The walls of buildings envelop you, you can’t see past them and the dirty concrete doesn’t give a fuck. The people don’t care either. You become another credit card number in a small apartment drinking Starbucks and eating McDonalds. Corporate America fucking you at the speed of light while you struggle to maintain your conscience after your third mid day drink, ripping that eighth bong hit, at your job, at school, walking the streets, or worse, driving them, the beds of the homeless. Watching the junkies have conversations with the walls because of the crack and heroin and warfare of every day. Nothing and no one is comfortably familiar. The city swallows you and you burn in the stomach acid of human induced pollution. You smell flowers on a stand and thank the universe for that whiff of fresh air. You see a tree and remember that those are kind of important to your survival. You connect to the branches and leaves stronger than the human being with the perfect legs accentuated by the high heels, lowlight, highlight, blonde hair with the Gucci bag that just walked out of the biggest Macy’s in the world reeking of consumerism and Armani Exchange. You smile and get no response from the human but the leaves on the tree rustle behind her in what wind makes it through the maze of brick and concrete. 8th street, Broadway, Chinatown. What’s the difference when you can’t even see the sun until it gets up over the buildings. No horizon, only the up, up, up of floors and stories and brick and mortar. Down and down are the cigarette butts and grime and feigning bodies of rags and withdrawal. Open toed high heels kicking up the dust of abandonment and apathy left beneath the bench where someone died the night before over ninety dollars and a broken deal.

Then you meet the lead singer of your favorite band at a free art show gallery and you touch his skin and shake hands with his wife and show him 1,500 dollars worth of free advertisement and 48 hours worth of your life for his “day job” that he doesn’t want talk about and you realize how very unspecial you are in a world of fans and people with talent that fawn over him every day and you won’t be remembered. And neither will they. Neither will any of us. And yet he is and he will be. And you love him and wish him eternal happiness and bliss beyond measure. Metal. Sexual appetite. Ache. And you think how fleeting that moment is and how you don’t have enough time and you think of the people who love you the most and you hate yourself for ever being disappointed because everything you’ve ever wanted you have and you’re getting and you’re so lucky you could die right there in the middle of a city that you hate touching a member of band who’s music has influenced the very person that you are and you wonder how you got there. How you got anywhere.

Then you hit rush hour both ways on a trip that you’ll be making 5 days straight and you realize that traffic is the only hell that exists and that 270 is the devil and you realize why so many people are miserable every day because you felt it sitting there standstill in a hot car sweating and cussing, wondering why you do anything in life ever, and then hating yourself because you feel miserable in the current situation when there are children out there, shriveled and bloated like raisins with no clean water to drink as vultures are ready to shred their little bodies to blood and wine. And then you think about wine and how the trip you are making is to go to a school to know how to better serve people the one substance that makes you feel invincible and like the biggest piece of shit all at the same time and you wonder if money was the reason you were born. If money is the reason for everything. And how pieces of paper control the world. And then you just feel weird.

And then stupid.

And then traffic moves and you scream fuck at the top of your lungs and keep driving.